Born This Way
by pi-on-a-skateboard
Summary: He was so aware of his hourglass, of each grain gliding down through the tubing and buried among the sea of memories down the bottom. Once they'd fallen, they were gone, melted into the crowd, their individuality never to be found again.
1. 600 Seconds

Hands together, palm to palm, the water and soap caressing his skin like a lover the cheek of his mistress. He scrubbed furiously, manically… but the germs wouldn't go away. All he could see was the dirt, the muck, the mud.

(_Out, damned spot! Out, I say!_)

He didn't know when he had become this way. He'd obviously been born with it… but something had changed. Perhaps as a child you simply aren't taught to see the persecution of supposed higher authorities. Perhaps the only true gift his mother had given him, was her ability to shadow him from the cruelty of the ignorant.

He scrubbed with his eyes closed. Always had. The humming of the water dripping down the drain called to him, its dulcet tones, its familiarity, working with the rhythmical action lulling him into a state of hypnosis… but it couldn't stop the flashbacks.

* * *

"_We're aware of your… situation… If there's anything at all that we can do…"_

_He snorted._

"_What happened to you… Words cannot express how disappointed I am. You deserve so much better. I am sorry I cannot offer you more… but, Hunter, you have my respect. It's all that I have to give."_

* * *

… And they say the military is full of honour.

(_Don't ask, don't tell._)

Ten seconds on each finger. He didn't even need to look at a watch any longer. Combining sixteen years of practise with five years of running drill, and he could swear his heart was set at 60 beats a minute. Ah, to hell with modesty. He could fault a metronome at 60.

… Time. God. There never was enough of it. And there was a very good reason why he no longer counted seconds… because he could barely stand to think of the 600 seconds he was now washing down the drain, floating away like grains of sand in the wind. Grains of sand, forever lost. And, unlike any other kid around him, he was so aware of their passage, of his little hourglasss, of each grain gliding down through the tubing and buried among the sea of memories down the bottom. Only, while he could appreciate every grain – once they'd fallen, they were gone, melted into the crowd, their individuality never to be found again.

He didn't know the proportions of his glass. He only knew that his was much smaller than any of his acquaintances. And, if the recent test results were anything to go by… there was a lot less sand at the top than he'd prefer.

Supposedly, it was a blessing. The ability to treat every 86,400 seconds like it was his last… the ability to appreciate them, to capture what grains he could and apply the right pressure and turn them into a diamond. Trouble was, you needed to focus to do that, and all he could ever concentrate on was the sand raining down around him like glitter, to try and count each individual raindrop as it hit his hands, his feet, his face.

He paused, turning to the side to smother a cough into his shoulder. He winced as his chest protested… but it stopped almost as soon as it had started. He took this as a good sign – that maybe here, he would finally start to get better…

(_Like that could ever happen._)

Maybe Dalton would be different. After all, even in full knowledge of his… condition… he'd still been offered a full scholarship – and he refused to believe any of it was due to pity.

And then there was his roommate, Sebastian…

* * *

"_I can tell by the way you're ignoring me that I fascinate you."_

_Hunter jumped, ripping his earphones out and cursing internally as he about-turned to greet his intruder._

_But the guy just grinned, his green eyes flashing. He cleared his throat before offering his hand. "Sebastian Smythe. Captain of the Warblers, captain of the lacrosse team, admitted French-whore, and, apparently, your new roommate."_

_Hunter glanced at the hand before gripping it firmly… another 600 seconds gone. "Hunter Clarington, not even remotely bi-curious, and… you guys don't have a cadet division, do you?"_

_Sebastian smirked. "That we do not. Though I've been told I run the Warblers a little like one."_

"_And the Warblers are…?"_

"_Only our infamous a cappella choir. Got to regionals last year. Nothing big."_

_Hunter rolled his eyes. The guy was cocky, sarcastic… He liked it._

"_You wouldn't be a bass, by any chance, would you? Because I think I'd have to kiss your feet. Or any part of your anatomy, really – your choice."_

"_I'm not gay. And not a bass – it just so happens that I led my previous choir to nationals with my kick-ass baritone solo."_

"_Well, you're no fun, are you, Dr Seuss?" Sebastian pouted… but then smirked again. "Still. We do need lower voices. I'll see you at auditions on Friday then?"_

"_I'm sure you'll see me before then, seeing how we're going to be living together for the next year," Hunter couldn't help but point out. "But, I'm a generous person and I don't like making unnecessary enemies, so I'll audition… with conditions."_

_Sebastian raised an eyebrow, considering. "What do you have in mind?"_

_But before he could answer, they were interrupted by two other guys flying into their room. Nick and Jeff. Niff, as they were referred to by the entire school – including teachers._

_And Hunter had just sighed, grateful that he hadn't begun cleaning before he'd had to shake two more hands, before smiling and introducing himself to more names._

* * *

The school was nothing but accepting. Half of his friends here were gay, and the other half couldn't give a crap. They'd even accepted him, and what they were calling his eccentricities, without question… The fact he had perfect pitch and stage presence possibly helping with that…

He still wasn't ready to tell anyone yet. And that was okay. Sure, Sebastian had noticed the compulsive hand-washing and the pills… but then again, he'd noticed Sebastian's own medication strewn throughout the room. Sebastian had come out straight away to him – even taught him some things. But Hunter couldn't do that. Not yet. What had happened at his old school… and at his division… It was too risky.

"Dude… Aren't they clean already?"

"Yeah, washing them too often can be really bad for your skin, mate."

Hunter rolled his eyes at the two boys behind him. "Not if I don't break the skin, Jeff. I'm not scrubbing hard. And, Sebastian, if I'm not mistaken, you were the one who coughed into his hands and then touched mine," he explained with a sigh. "So, you'll have to wait another 75 seconds for me to finish."

Military precision. Nothing would take that away from him.

"Wow. I'm sorry. I… didn't think?"

It didn't take a glimpse to know that was a genuine apology. Though maybe if he had looked over his shoulder, he would have noticed the shared frown between them… the mouthed "_OCD_" and "_we need Wes_"…

He wanted to tell them. He really did. From what he knew of the group, pity wasn't really their thing – but then, his situation was definitely unique – especially in the finest nation in the world. And, for just once in his life, he relished the new start. He enjoyed the couple of weeks where he hadn't faced a wall of judgement or prejudice or fear whenever he turned around. And after he got kicked out – after he'd been spat on, had every possible name the kids could come up with thrown at him… he wasn't looking forward to returning to that. Even at a school like Dalton, with enforced no-bullying policies… when they knew…

He sniffed as he ran his hands under the water, fingertips to forearm, in one direction.

It wasn't so much a fear. When facing your own mortality, you have nothing left to lose. He didn't fear their judgement, because, really, they couldn't do any worse to him than had already happened. And Dalton had awarded him the scholarship in full knowledge – they weren't about to take it away. And, he didn't fear dying… but he did worry over what he would miss. And _this_, he supposed, was why he couldn't do it yet. Not when he'd had a taste of acceptance. A taste of equality. He wasn't about to give that up.

But he would have to. It was only a matter of time until someone – not him –

(_touch wood_)

– got sick. And then it would all come spilling out, just like before.

Well, he wouldn't let that happen. Hunter was nothing if not strong, orderly and determined. He would tell them. Soon. On his own terms, which he would dictate. And he would accept none of their crap. He just… needed the right way to do it.

… Maybe he could take a leaf out of his final family night at his old division. Only use it to announce his condition, rather than his departure. Hell, it helped unite them all back then – and it sure as hell would now. And, this time, he would use more of that 'integrity' the division used to preach about. This time, he would use it to explain himself, to bond with his choir. Not to spit in their faces.

His final act at his old division _had_ been one of defiance. After his condition had led to his… 'voluntary' resignation… Well, Hunter _was_ only following orders. They'd been ordered to discover their fears and insecurities, and to wear that on their chests for their performance, and the rest of the year…

* * *

_He swallowed, brushing a lock of honey hair from his eyes, looked out into the audience… His own shirt reflecting in their eyes…_

_**DISEASED**_

_Then he took in a breath, opened his mouth, and began to sing._

My Mama told me when I was young,

We're all born superstars.

* * *

He was only following orders. If they weren't comfortable with it, that was their own problem.

This time, it would mean something. Actually mean something. It wouldn't be one final 'screw you'. Screw you for kicking me out. Screw you for treating me like a splinter in your finger or a pellet in your chest.

This time, he would face his group as a human being. This time, they would see that. And (_fingers crossed_) they would accept him for it. They'd find out soon enough regardless. With Trent around, it was only a matter of time before the rumour mill began churning.

Okay. He could do this. He could set the wheels in motion.

"Hunt? You okay?"

He'd almost forgotten the two hovering behind him.

Lift up right toes and left heel. One. Two, three… one. About turn to face them.

"Peachy," he grinned as he dried his hands. "Now, let's hit rehearsal. I've got some great ideas… if I do say so myself. How do you guys feel about Lady Gaga?"

* * *

**Hi guys!**

**So... Hunter... Well, as I've mentioned to a few people, he intrigues me a lot. I've seen a couple of fics on here - I've only been able to read a couple - so I thought I'd add mine to the mix. I'm hoping to explore why he is the way he is - the title is very important for this, if you want clues! I mean... people don't just leave the military. So, this'll be, I guess, his final search for acceptance, with flashbacks and the usual. TSAB-esque, for those of you that have read it, but different main characters, different disorder I'm exploring.**

**I'll throw in here, because I _always_ forget - I don't own Glee. You'd know if I did - the Warblers would always be there if I did! Damn attractive men in uniform singing... And soon to be marching and saluting, if I get my way with them :-)**

**Also, what Hunter has - I have no experience with at all. I'm researching and, because of uni I do know a little about what I'm giving him (this makes so much more sense in my head but I don't want to give anything away! :p ) but I can only hope to portray a somewhat empathetic view of it all. I don't know what it's like, what he would be going through... but I'll give it a shot!**

**You're always welcome to come yell at me if I get something wrong though :p**

**... I can't think of anything else to add in at this point in time. It is just past 4 am currently. (This is why, Steph, you should not drink coffee after 2pm. Or write after 10... :p)**

**Oh, wait, there is - just something I put in all my fics. If ever you guys need to talk about anything - I want you all to know you aren't alone. You can PM me here, or hit up my Ask over on Tumblr (pi-on-a-skateboard . tumblr . com), any time, for any reason.**

**Okay. Like it? Hate it? Want me to turn into a lightbulb and then blow out? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	2. The Musings of Hunter Clarington, part 1

**Day 1**

_(I'm adding this note purely to comment on my lack of dates. I do not see the point in marking the exact moment this happened. I mean, we're all going to be dead in a few months anyway, if the damn conservatives have finally managed to get anything right.)_

What's this, Hunter Clarington hating conservatives?

If you could see me, my disgust would be glaring you in the face.

But aren't I a good little military boy?

I was. Once upon a time. In many respects I still am. I find myself marching down the halls between classes. I still find myself standing and snapping to attention with rhythmical precision whenever a teacher or superior enters a room. My heart quickens every morning during The Pledge. And, I still demand the utmost best of my _cadets_ friends.

_But how I was treated was_

_What they did change_

_Fuck them fuck them all and the horses they rode in on_

Long story short, I can no longer give a fuck who runs the country. But, it's a lot more fun to make fun of the republicans. They get a little pissy at you. And by pissy, I of course mean that they may run at you with axe and pitchfork screaming for a witch trial.

And I would know.

I suppose you're wondering why I'm even writing this thing.

To tell you the truth, so am I.

Well, that's a story for another time. Assuming I ever actually pick this gay piece of crap up again. I mean, who writes in a diary?

This isn't a diary. It's an assignment. And I'll be long gone before anyone would even dare read this.

… I don't like the irony to that sentence.

For fuck's sake, Hunter. Have the last five years of your life taught you nothing? Did your cadetship not teach you how to be direct? Did your _disease virus illness weakness_ not teach you the importance of not wasting time?!

I'm not sure what the hell they expect me to write in this. My feelings? Yeah. Right.

Well, this whole thing is a waste of time.

I'm off now.

Do I say goodbye to a piece of writing?

I suppose I'm never going to see this shit again. It's been lovely knowing you, few pages of book. Have a nice life. I know I sure will.

* * *

**Hi there!**

**I'm going to be experimenting with a few different styles here... I'll eventually let you know why he's been given this 'assignment' and everything else, but I do think it's interesting to see just how many sides the poor kid keeps. And it should be mainly 'normal' narrative, but there will be little bits and pieces like this thrown in from time to time... probably mostly when I get writer's block!**

**Thanks to everyone who's with me so far! It really does mean a lot that people take time out of their day to spend on reading this... Thanks especially to Carbon65, PenMagic, MD5991, Eraman and Different Child!**

**Oh, and, as an after thought, apparently editing the HTML sourcecode WON'T LET ME PUT MY STRIKE-THROUGHS IN. Thanks, FFnet. So the weird things italicised (for the time being) should be striked out... but does anyone have any idea how I can get it to save? Please?**

**Like it? Hate it? Want my phone to become permanently attached to my hand so I can't type? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	3. The First Set of Firsts

The first dinner is always the hardest.

There were a few reasons for that. Normally, you'd expect the "I'm new, I don't know anyone here, where will I sit?" nerves to be the major influence… and it was still true for Hunter. But, they only exacerbated his basal paranoia – food just made him on edge, and he really couldn't afford to take chances any longer… meaning he'd be receiving what was basically a plate of cardboard. Gluten-free, allergen-friendly, and boiled to the point of losing taste.

So it was another giant poster taped to his head. Five hours and he was already the new kid that liked washing his hands and marching in time. Now he'd be the new kid with the funny eating habits too.

The unfamiliarity was terrifying. He could deal with change, but Hunter was a creature of routine. Back at his old school, he'd once (admittedly on a bet) made it through the week without looking at a clock even once – including his alarm. A little crazy, perhaps… but he'd done it. He was just so fixed.

And here… Well, he'd slip into the routine easily enough. But he didn't know it yet. He didn't know if food came at the same time every day… and what time it would come. He didn't know where he could sit, if anyone would accept him there, if he was intruding… Whether they did the dishes, whether there was a roster… Whether every night they looked at a menu and just wished for things and a tiny house-elf would bring it out on a large silver platter…

Those were his increasingly-ridiculous thoughts as he slipped into the large dining hall (he'd sent Sebastian ahead to avoid the awkward, I'm-sitting-with-my-roommate-because-I-don't-know-anybody-else thing, and followed the herd, figuring they'd be aiming in the direction of food) and hovered somewhere in the back, avoiding eye contact. The last thing he was expecting as he was called up to the kitchen that night, was for a familiar looking chocolate-eyed, brunetted guy to sidle up behind him, smiling.

"Uh… It's Nick, right?"

The brunette's smile increased. "Yep, that's right!" He held out a hand – but just as quickly took it away, trying to shrug it off as some bizarre form of stretch. "Resident Coeliac at your service. What are you in for?"

"You don't want to shake my hand?" Hunter asked, eyes crinkling.

"Seb, uh… He mentioned you, uh… had a thing with hands, I guess," Nick said, a blush appearing on his cheeks (_wow, word spreads fast here_), "and we're about to eat so I don't want to distract you from food… It's actually not half-bad here."

"That's reassuring," he said with only a trace of sarcasm, glancing at the mess of rice and vegetables as it was slapped on his plate… though, to be honest, it actually managed to smell somewhat appetising. "What is this?"

Nick snorted. "Better than congee." He leant over, picking up a couple of sets of cutlery and looking down at Hunter's plate. "You vegetarian too?"

He shook his head. "I'll eat meat occasionally, but…" He shrugged. He didn't have to explain everything. "I need to make sure it's cooked perfectly, and I'm funny with things like pork and chicken. It's easier this way."

To his credit, Nick nodded. "Fair enough. I wouldn't survive without meat, unfortunately – my iron's tanked… Where are you sitting?"

He looked around at the dining hall. "I suppose you're going to tell me to beware the plastics?"

Nick snorted. "I can't believe you've seen that!"

_(There's a lot you wouldn't know about me.)_

"Seen what?" he asked, almost innocently.. Admitting you'd seen Mean Girls? Kinda social suicide… regardless of the circumstance.

But any further discussion – which would only lead to even more awkward questions about hospitals and Clare and dammit he did not _need_ those thoughts again – was halted as the blond he was pretty sure was called Jeff appeared, spearing himself a piece of Nick's zucchini.

"Hey! I was gonna eat that!"

Jeff puckered his lips, cheek bulging like a squirrel where he must have pushed the food. "You want it back?"

"Seriously?"

"It'll taste sweeter – salivary amylase and all."

"Oh, is that the excuse you're giving?" Nick pushed him back. "Go get your own bloody food. Incorrigible child."

Hunter snorted at the pair. They had to be a couple… or they would be, soon. (_If anything, the military _helped_ develop your gaydar._) There was some inexplicable closeness to them, like they could read each other's skin or something equally ridiculous… (_Don't think of Clare, no. You're here and she's gone. Don't think don't think don't think_)

A hand waved in front of his eyes and Hunter blinked.

"Y'alright?" The blond smiled, the zucchini apparently long-swallowed. "It's really awkward the first night… You should come sit with us!"

"No, I… it's alright… I'll just…"

"You're not intruding!" Nick reassured him, awkwardly balancing his plate (_he must be a dancer_) on his arm as he gripped his upper arm with the other hand. "The Warblers tend to stick together. Seb said that you're a singer – you can come get to know us before you audition."

"You are auditioning, right?"

(_… They seem alright… You can't ignore people forever. They _want_ to get to know you._)

"Yeah, I do sing and dance a little…" he admitted, slowly, not entirely sure why he was being so cautious.

"Brilliant!" Jeff's grin somehow managed to increase, leaving Hunter astounded that his cheeks hadn't ripped apart yet. "Now, don't let tea time put you off. We're… well… you'll find out. But if you can stand this, you should be set for life!"

And he thought house-elves would be weird at Dalton.

Nick laughed. "You'll be fine. And, you'll judge us more than the inverse you're worrying over. Come on," he tugged again at his arm, pulling them towards the tables, "we don't bite."

"Unless you want us to, of course," Jeff added with a wink.

"I'm not – "

"even remotely bi-curious," the 'twins' joined in… and laughed.

"What Jeff means to say is," Nick began again, "we take a little getting used to… but just cos a chicken has wings, doesn't mean it can fly."

"Meaning we're simply awesome." Jeff this time plucked some of Hunter's capsicum.

Nick groaned. "Just… go get your dinner already!" He finally let go of Hunter's arm to slap the Australian's ass… and then leant in to kiss his cheek.

(_Yep. Definitely a couple._)

"And we'll see you at the table."

Then Nick grabbed Hunter once more, pulling him over to the very centre, where Sebastian and a few others were sitting. But, he was all grins. Tonight was going to be… interesting.

* * *

Okay, the guys definitely deserved more credit than Hunter had thought possible for him to give… and Hunter had met a brigadier general. He wasn't entirely sure when or how he'd dropped the whole nervous-sore-thumb attitude, but he'd suddenly gone from being the dude with the third arm to being the next Misha Collins like a titration reaches its end point.

Perhaps it was simply sitting down and seeing Sebastian's face smiling back, rather than recoiling in horror. Perhaps it was being introduced to the four other guys at the table and having them pay no attention to his hair, his plate, his dinner medication. Perhaps it was his dreadful attempt at a conversation in Italian with Thad, or his debate over the nature of souls and the act of splitting them (for example, would people in the army be able to create horcruxes?) with David, or throwing all his and Nick's capsicum at Jeff (well, it wasn't like he could eat it anyway… and the blonde _clearly_ wanted all he could get his hands on), or laughing at Sebastian's confusion as Trent whispered sweet nothings in his ear…

Or maybe it was, amidst the clinking of spoons on bowls and slurps of ice cream, drawing a ring of salt around their table as the lights began to flicker. But somehow, at some stage, he actually… might have started considering these guys his friends. They were complete nerds – like himself. They were all singers and dancers, all high-achieving, and fairly like-minded too. So… maybe it'd work out.

The thing that really cinched the deal, though, was when the discussion finally descended into music.

"So, what has the council got planned this year?" Nick asked with a cheeky smirk. "Because, you know, I'd love to steal any solos that you've got…"

"I haven't arranged anything yet…" Seb remarked, looking around the table. "I was thinking we'd have a bit of a jam session before we got anything set. What about you guys?"

"I've got some – "

"We're not doing Cold Chisel, Jeff!" David interrupted. "We are good, but not quite to that extent. Who would even solo?"

"We do hold auditions, mate," Jeff pouted. "Someone might have the power to carry it…"

"Hunter sings," Sebastian announced, pushing his arm. "Can you do rock?"

He blushed a little, looked down. (_Why am I so shy all of a sudden?_) "Uh… no. I can possibly push myself to carry your baritones, but I can't scream."

The guys around the table were looking at him.

"So, what do you sing?" The youngest of the boys asked, smiling under his brilliant green eyes. "Are you more pop, funk, jazz…?"

"Trent's our little jazz baby," Sebastian explained, ruffling the boy's head. "He does everything, and, dear God, he does it well. You _are_ going to solo for us this year, right?"

Trent shook his head. "I'm a junior. I can wait a year."

"You'll be on the council next year!" Nick argued.

"Eh. I'll survive." He turned back to Hunter. "So… what do you sing?"

Hunter shrugged. He was pretty easy, really.

"Well, what's in your head?"

Easy question. "Whistle. Flo Rida."

There was a communal smile around the table, and Jeff began to whistle the intro. Somehow, almost like magic (_they know each other and their voices well, I'll give them that_) they all fell into the supporting harmony, all seven, including… Dylan?... who was beatboxing – deliberately leaving the main for him to take.

Well, how could he ignore something like that? Music was his _life_. (_Almost literally._)

Hunter grinned and began to sing.

_Can you blow my whistle, baby, whistle baby?_

_Let me know._

_Girl, I'm gonna show you how to do it and we'll_

_Start real slow._

_You just put your lips together_

_And you come real close._

_Can you blow my whistle, baby, whistle, baby?_

_Here we go._

They only needed the intro. The black boy (_it was David, right?_) clapped him on the back. "Welcome to the Warblers!"

"_Love_ the song!" Jeff said. "Even if it is about blow jobs…"

Hunter just rolled his eyes. "Old news."

The expression on Thad's face was absolutely priceless though. His mouth had initially dropped open in a mock gape of horror, before he tried (and failed) to contain a bemused laugh. "Blow jobs? Really?"

"Don't mind the innocent Muslim," Nick reached an arm around the boy. "He's come far, but he's got a long way yet to go."

"You're Muslim?" He turned to face Thad. "I… I thought you were Italian!"

"Maltese, actually," Thad admitted. "Well… it's complicated. Dad's half-Maltese, half-British and converted Muslim when he met my half-Paki, half-American mother. Got a problem?"

Trent was watching them, eyebrows crossing… he decided to redirect the conversation. "You know what I've had in my head the last couple of days? The Band Perry."

"Ooooh!" David looked up excitedly. "That would be… interesting to do."

"Can we?"

"Only if Trent solos for it," Nick spoke up. "Seriously, man. I'd kill to hear you sing that… if it's what I think it is!"

"Of course. What else?"

Hunter had a bad feeling about this… but he really didn't know what they were on about. It could be another song. Maybe. Just maybe. "Alright, Mr Jazz Baby. Show us what you're made of!"

Trent grinned, before dramatically centring himself, waving his arms and dropping them in front of him as he breathed. Then he opened his mouth, eyes looking down, his voice reaching out and caressing their cheeks, drawing them deep into his song.

_Lord make me a rainbow, I'll shine down on my mother._

_She'll know I'm safe with you when she stands under my colours._

_And life ain't always what you think it ought to be, no,_

_Ain't even grey but she buries her baby._

Oh, God.

It was.

No.

Clare.

Chest infections.

Illness.

Shit.

Hunter forced himself to draw in a breath, to keep his face neutral, completely ignoring his stomach dropping away and collapsing inwards on itself and creating a black hole in his trunk sucking everything around it and crushing it to the first dimension.

_The sharp knife of a short life, well_

_I've had just enough time._

No. He couldn't do this. Not now. Not without them knowing.

Trent's eyes were closed, and the others were all focused on him… some of them humming, some just listening. If he were quiet…

_If I die young, lay me down in satin._

_Lay me down on a bed of roses._

_Sink me in a river at dawn._

_Send me away with the words of a love song._

He stood up, grabbing his chair and lifting it as he backed away, softly, carefully, trying not to even disturb the air around him.

No one even looked up.

Then, when he was sure no one was looking… he about-turned and headed straight for the dormitory, shaking hand pressed to his head to siphon any emotion straight back inside.

* * *

"_Hunt? You in here?" Sebastian whispered as he pushed open their bedroom door._

_And there he finally was – not in the bathroom or any classrooms or the piano room (that the boy hadn't heard of the room or its power never entered any of the Warbler's minds) – curled over on top of his bed, a small animal clutched to his stomach._

_He breathed in relief – at least he hadn't wandered into the dungeons or onto the roof. Seb crossed the room so gently a ninja would stand out… looking down at his roommate. There was the faint imprint on his pillow of wetness and salt, but he looked… almost peaceful, unburdened by military precision and whatever the hell had made him run away from the table, his mouth drooping a tiny amount and snuffling so softly, so rhythmically… He shivered, though, clutching the soft toy even tighter than before, and then it occurred to him how vulnerable this kid actually was – God knows why he'd been sent to room with Sebastian. But still, the senior did have a heart, regardless of how small it may have appeared in the past. He pushed the covers down, pulled them over the top of his… friend, before changing and climbing into bed himself. His last thought for the night, was of just how screwed up his roommate was, how they were going to learn to deal with it, what had triggered him… and how they could help him realise his own self-worth._

_Then he was gone to chasing rabbits with Matt Bomer (or was it Blaine's brother?) for a head, screaming murder about tardiness._

* * *

**Hey guys!**

**So once again I find myself updating while completely exhausted. I'm so sorry for the length of time it's taken to get this up. I was planning to do one more before I went to Queensland - but I worked 11 of 12 days, and my one day off was my work Chrissy party and then a family one so... yeah, no time. Then I went to Queensland for a week... and then went straight back into crazy work.**

**So, merry Christmas/happy holidays! And a very happy New Year! What did you all do?**

**I also got my licence since I last updated! Very exciting :-)**

**Now, I'm not overly happy with this, but I needed to pump something out. You'll get more soon, hopefully... and then I can really just get straight into it. But, I figure, we can all do with a little Warbler love (ignoring the terrible quality of writing), and it doesn't make sense to jump in without him meeting everyone and all that. So this is the first set of firsts - next chapter will be the second set of firsts, and then I should hopefully be fairly sweet. Hopefully.**

**Okay. I need to go to bed. I worked a sleepover last night, did a second shift today, and I start work at 7 am tomorrow.**

**Thank you so much to everyone that has read/reviewed/favourited/alerted! It really means the world to me. And shout-outs to Carbon 65, Different Child, and Eraman!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want my car to become bogged in jelly? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	4. On Life and Infinity and All In Between

**On Life and Infinity and all in between**

**Because school counsellors don't know how to deal with me and, what the fuck, maybe I can swing this thing as extra credit**

**Because my mind actually goes philosophical at midnight when I can't sleep because SEBASTIAN SNORES SO BLOODY LOUDLY**

**CAN YOU HEAR ME SEB? I AM YELLING AT YOU**

**Fuck it. Back to philosophy I go**

They say when dying, you go through five stages, each very different, each **so** stereotypical. You progress through the stages in a very linear fashion – linear in the sense that they are a line. You don't have to go through them one after the other – you can skip them, you can go backwards. But, somewhere between the realisation that you're dying and the actual leaving-this-world-and-moving-on-and-decomposing bit, you go through every single one of them.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. And, most depressingly – acceptance. (Yes, I realise the irony in that statement.)

Well, that's all well and good. It's extensive, and it's become stereotypical because of that element of truth it holds for us all. I mean, what sort of psych student or pop culture nut couldn't recite these in his or her sleep?

But what they don't tell you, is the different types of dying people.

First up, there's the little kiddies. The soldiers. The ones with cancer or blood disorders or two heads. They're everywhere. Every time you walk into a hospital, you're confronted with their poor, innocent faces, so obviously condemned by fate, so set in the belief that the only thing that will save them is a large wad of cash to the hospital. They're brave, don't get me wrong. I hold these kids in the highest respect (just not how corporations abuse their image for profit). So completely naïve of their fate. Or, even worse, the ones that know… I suppose I'm a little like them. We don't fear death. There's no point fearing it. But, the things that we'll miss out on – getting married, having ten kids, getting fired and fearing the bank repossessing our home… Pleasant or not, it's an experience that, well, we won't get. And that just plain sucks.

I digress. I meant to speak of the "positive" ones. Which these kids sort of are… I guess they're a sub-type. They know there isn't long til they simply won't **be** – present tense – any more. So, each day counts. Each day is something to be celebrated. Somehow, in these tiny brains of theirs, they learn how to push all that shit away and just smile… purely because they are still here.

I'm jealous of them sometimes. I really am.

On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, are the "hopeless". They won't always have been glass-half-empty people, but Dying just has this way of gripping your brain, dicing it, and putting it back together like a straight-edged jigsaw puzzle… it's not right, but you've got fuck-all at making it a brain again. These are the fighters… in a twisted sense. The ones that refuse to give in to the disease, whatever the hell it is… And they do. Mostly, they just beat the disease at its game.

Smack bang in the middle of these guys, are… I guess I should call them non-typers, even though their name is so ironic because by being a non-typer they are, in essence, a type but _IS THIS EVEN MAKING SENSE ANYMORE WHAT IS SYNTAX_ yes. These guys basically look at whatever it is they have and go, 'Fuck it. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow. Sure, life sucks a little right now, but someday it'll be over. Normality is a good thing. I'm going to cling to this completely intangible and in all likelihood impossible notion and be just fine-and-dandy until one day I don't wake up and don't have to bother with facades any longer.'

What the fuck even is normality, is what I'd like to know.

Next we have the what I like to, and probably shouldn't, call, the Dead Poets Society. These are the people who try so goddamn hard to live by _carpe diem_. They donate all their money to charity, they go bungee-jumping in New Zealand, they eat snail and lobster and peanut butter and banana sandwiches… just because. Although, when I think about it, these guys are almost the most depressing of all. They've accepted their fate. They aren't happy… so they try to sneak it in other ways. If that actually achieves something, I'll… I'll… I'll eat a burger. Rare meat, white bread, onions, the whole lot. And then I'll burn the flag.

Then there's the more selfless… and ultimately selfish. The ones who don't want to cause people more pain – so remove themselves from society. They refuse to be seen. Because somewhere in their minds (remember what I said about Dying?) they forget that, well, nobody's gonna be around forever. They think that letting their friends see them in their sickened state will somehow hurt less than letting them see them just one last time.

Clare was a bit like that.

The guys here keep asking about her.

I don't know what to tell them. I mean… how do you tell someone, that the only person you could love, just… was. Past tense.

I digress again. I suppose I'll eventually write her story down. Someone has to. And, I don't know. The guys here, just… they respect privacy, but… they just. I don't even know. There's some weird connection between them all. I can feel it pulling me too, much as I try to ignore it. They want me in their… I don't know if it's a wolf-pack and they can all speak telepathically (blame _her_ for the Twilight reference) or what the hell it is.

Shit.

I keep digressing.

I don't even know why they wanted me to write about death. I suppose the counsellor here just… doesn't really know what to do with me. I mean, it's old news for me. But not for them. And, fuck it. Just once in my life I want something to work out. So, I'll try. Mr Harris, if you're reading this… apologies for the language. My training makes me bite my tongue when speaking, but there's just so much honesty that the pen holds, right? Some strange power… like they can only speak the truth. And I mean… they're just words.

These are all words. Such meaningless little things. One letter after another that our brain forms into some connection and then we communicate. But that's all they are. One letter after another.

Maybe it's the simplicity that lends to their immortality.

Fuck, I'm getting philosophical.

I guess I should go back to typing people.

But why? What do I hope to achieve? What the hell did my brain want to get out, to flow down in blood through my fingers and into the pen and soak itself into the page?

Goddamn Lit. I'm speaking in fucking imagery now.

Who gives a shit anyway. We all have our place in the world.

So, Mr Harris. I guess you're wondering… which type am I?

I don't know.

I don't even know what day it is anymore.

* * *

**Hey guys!**

**So... not entirely sure where this came from. Possibly Mars. Possibly me _finally_ sitting down and reading a few chapters of The Fault in Our Stars. Possibly in the package delivered with my new shiny blazer... but somewhere. But, I was at work and I was, like Hunter, feeling rather philosophical, and I sat down to write and this happened. So you get this, and (assuming my Muse behaves itself) next update should be his first day.**

**I know there are questions. And I will get to them. And, because I have a feeling this chapter might prompt some - the chances of me actually killing Hunter are seriously slim. And I'm not using killing in the John Green understanding. I promise.**

**So like always I'm super-busy with work. I had to do a 14 hour shift the other day - not kidding - and a sleepover last night. And a client had her 70th birthday last week, so she had a party today, so of course I stuck around work to help with that... which was pretty cool. **

**I do, however, need to make dinner - it's 1900 hours now and I'm ever-so-slightly hungry, so, I'll just post this and go running :p**

**Thank you to everyone that's read this, reviewed, favourited, followed, all that jazz. It really means the world to me to wake up and find your messages! Shout outs to Different Child, Carbon65, my guest :-) , Pen Magic, Eraman and HPandWforever!**

**Also, because I somehow managed to forget last time - you have to thank (well, I have to thank) Different Child and Carbon65 for helping spark my muse - and Different Child suggested _If I Die Young_, which Trent sang and dear God I think it's in the top 5 songs that Dominic Barnes NEEDS TO SING!**

**Okay. Good. I'm done for now.**

**Like it? Hate it? Want one of my clients to hit me with their chairs? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


	5. Jeff: An Interlude

_The thing you need to understand about Hunter Clarington is, he's a charming bastard. He walks into school and without 'swag' ever being mentioned, you just know that he's clued in. That he could order an entire year of Dalton boys to stand in silence at the click of a finger… because Hunter understands how high school works. He's privy to the secrets and subterfuge of teenage boys. After all, Clarington was no stranger to the hidden ways of men._

_It's so strange to think back to that day – that very first day. He was just like any normal kid on his first day – shy, vulnerable, a tiny fish in a huge ocean._

_And thank God for that first day. It enabled us to see through all that military pomp and circumstance. Through the arrogance he'd been brainwashed into using like a security blanket. Through both the brains and the brawn._

_Because, those first days, he let us in. And we saw him for what he truly was – a scared, hurt little boy._

_Just like the rest of us._

_And that would never change._

* * *

**Hi guys!**

**My apologies for taking so long to get this up! Uni's making it really difficult for me to write, and I'm involved in a writing project - Between Friends - which updates every week. Plus, I've been battling with writer's block - especially related to Hunter. But, I was sitting at uni and this popped into my head... and hopefully it'll spur more in the not-so-distant future!**

**Thank you to everyone that's read this! Hopefully I haven't lost too many of you! And shout-outs to ficdirectory, Tara621, xxCullenxx96, livcrew, Different Child, PenMagic, Eliros, Eraman and Carbon65!**

**Like it? Hate it? Want the walls to come tumbling down in the city that we love? Please let me know!**

**Keep smiling! :D**


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